The Bus Years (2003-2006)

by | Jul 24, 2024

Photograph of a kid in a bus corridor.

“boy walking inside bus with green seats” (2017), Steve Shreve. Courtesy of Unsplash.

The days along the bus route blur together, traveling to and from her trailer home, kindergarten, first grade, second grade, an hour each way.

She is the first kid on the bus and the last kid off. The days along the bus route blur together, traveling to and from her trailer home, kindergarten, first grade, second grade, an hour each way. She boards in morning fog and disembarks in the fading light of the afternoon.

She knows her place: front row, passenger-side window. It’s both a choice and a restraining order, since only popular kids can sit at the back. Sometimes, she doesn’t bother to take her purple backpack off, smooshing it against the seat and her small spine.

Looking out the window at the Delaware countryside, she pretends people are running along the tops of the powerlines by the road, trying to keep up with the bus. She doodles little stick figures in the condensation of the glass and looks for shapes in clouds.

Today is show-and-tell, and she has a handmade scrapbook of baby photos with her on the bus, resting gently on her lap. She is excited to show her classmates her creative work—how she framed the photos of herself with crinkle-cut scissor scraps and stickers. She spent hours crafting on the green carpet in her living room, wielding glitter glue and gel pens.

Another kid sits next to her and points to her lap. “What’s that?” ask.

She shows and tells, flipping the scrapbook to the first page, revealing baby-her in denim overalls and sunhats and smothered in spaghetti. Tufts of brown hair and chubby, chubby cheeks.

The kid leans forward, opens their mouth, and expels un-Lucky Charms her babyhood memorabilia. A shower of beige and rainbow chunks—shooting stars with no wishes granted.

Something like the cicadas coming out of hibernation, dormant until the timing is right, filling the bus with an insistent buzzing and movement.

She is the first kid on the bus and the last kid off. The afternoon energy is a different beast from the morning’s typical malaise. Something like the cicadas coming out of hibernation, dormant until the timing is right, filling the bus with an insistent buzzing and movement. Someone gets yelled at for throwing crayons at cars out the window.

She tries to ignore the shenanigans of her peers, who are sliding under the seats, throwing pencils, gum, shoes; who are taunting; who are gossiping.

For a brief time, she gets to sit near the cool kids and participates in their antics. She crawls under the seats. She tosses wads of paper. She learns where the potholes are and how to crouch to soar in the air like a fairy for a moment when they hit them.

But there are no secrets on the bus. Word gets out she is trailer trash, and she would never be cool.

She blends into the cold metal siding, props her knees on the seatback, and reads. Books are her new favorite escapism. She is losing herself in Pippi in the South Seas when she glances out the window and doesn’t recognize the landscape. Her own raft lost at sea! The bus driver is humming to himself and startles when she peeks her head into the aisle. “Why didn’t you get off at your stop?” he barks. She holds the book up to hide her face.

Back by the barn, there is an old, busted tractor tire laid flat, filled to the rim with dark obsidian oil, like a well, almost.

The bus pulls off the second both of her feet touch grass, the driver speeding away from daily chauffeur duties.

Sometimes when she gets home, the front door is locked.

She’ll be alone for a while, left to her own devices.

She chases the stray cats or sits on the front steps and reads or draws. She creates little comics about cats that were mean because they wouldn’t let her pet them or love them. Back by the barn, there is an old, busted tractor tire laid flat, filled to the rim with dark obsidian oil, like a well, almost. She searches for a good fallen branch to dip in the oil like a paintbrush and stain the dirt. It is not an easy medium to work with, and the results are open to interpretation, more Rorschach than Pollock.

Destiny Pinder-Buckley

Destiny Pinder-Buckley

Publab Fellow 2024

Destiny Pinder-Buckley was born and raised (mostly) in South Dakota. Currently, she is pursuing her MFA in Nonfiction Creative Writing from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. Her work has appeared in The Sun, Popular Culture Review, Drunk Monkeys, and The Desert Companion.